Chapter 7 - The Shooter Who Should Have Been Dead
I had a hundred reasons to put my hands around Victor Shaw's throat.
The faces of eleven dead Americans were the first eleven.
But I didn't move.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I had learned long ago that the first person to lose control usually handed the advantage to someone else.
Shaw stood in front of me with the same calm expression he used to wear while repairing radios in Afghanistan.
His black watch gleamed in the morning light.
Calloway stepped closer.
"You know this guy?"
I kept my eyes on Shaw.
"Unfortunately."
Shaw smiled.
"Still dramatic, Tara."
I felt my jaw tighten.
"Don't call me that."
He lifted his hands.
"All right."
I looked toward the competition roster.
"How did you get admitted?"
"Special invitation."
"From Crawford?"
He shrugged.
"Ask the event director."
I stepped closer.
"You threatened my mother."
For the first time, something shifted in his expression.
"Careful."
I lowered my voice.
"Did you go to her hospital?"
His eyes flickered.
"You should worry less about the hospital and more about the next round."
I stared at him.
"Did you?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he leaned toward me.
"You always were too sentimental.
That's why Mercer liked you."
The words hit hard.
"Mercer trusted all of us."
Shaw gave a short laugh.
"Mercer trusted people who knew how to keep their mouths shut."
I thought about the general waiting in the secure administration area.
The man who had sacrificed thirteen years with his family because of secrets like these.
I looked at Shaw.
"He's here."
For a fraction of a second, Shaw stopped breathing.
Then he recovered.
"Who's here?"
"Mercer."
He stared at me.
I continued.
"Alive.
And ready to talk."
Shaw's eyes moved toward the administration building.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
He hadn't known.
He had been confident that Mercer was still hidden.
Now that certainty was gone.
I turned away.
He called after me.
"Angel."
I stopped.
"You're making the same mistake you made in Afghanistan."
I looked back.
"What mistake?"
"Thinking the good guys are always the ones wearing your uniform."
Then he put his sunglasses back on.
And walked toward the firing line.
Colonel Whitcomb nearly overturned her chair when I told her Shaw was competing.
"That's impossible."
I dropped the roster onto the table.
"Apparently that word doesn't mean much around here."
Mercer picked it up.
His face darkened.
"Victor Shaw."
Hayes immediately contacted the range authorities.
Within minutes, investigators confirmed that Shaw had entered under valid civilian identification.
His competition eligibility had been approved through an organization listed as a private veterans' association.
The authorization came from Richard Vale.
And the late-entry waiver carried Crawford's signature.
I looked at Mercer.
"He's daring us to expose him."
Mercer nodded.
"Or trying to force you into a confrontation."
Whitcomb folded her arms.
"Shaw may be protected by people who don't want his past examined."
I stared at her.
"He admitted betraying our team."
"Did he say it plainly?"
"He said he sold all eleven."
Hayes looked up.
"Was anyone recording?"
I shook my head.
"Not that I know of."
He sighed.
"Then it's your statement against his."
I felt anger rising.
"Eleven men and women died."
"I know."
"How much more proof do you need?"
Hayes met my eyes.
"Enough that the people responsible can't walk away."
That answer silenced me.
Because he was right.
I didn't need another accusation.
I needed evidence.
Evidence that could survive lawyers.
Military hearings.
Judges.
And every powerful person willing to bury the truth.
Mercer set down the roster.
"Let him compete."
I turned.
"What?"
"Let Shaw compete."
"General—"
"He came here for a reason.
If we remove him now, we may never discover what that reason is."
I stared at him.
"And if he's here to hurt someone?"
"Then we protect the range."
I looked toward the window.
Shaw was checking his equipment.
Crawford stood nearby.
Watching.
Waiting.
The championship had become something far more dangerous than a contest.
But I still needed the prize.
And I still had a mother in Georgia waiting for me to bring it home.
I looked at Mercer.
"Fine."
Then I picked up my rifle case.
"But if he thinks I'm throwing this competition, he's about to be disappointed."
The third round began at 9:15 a.m.
Thirty-two competitors remained.
Shaw had been granted a qualifying score based on a private assessment conducted before dawn.
Nobody could explain why the assessment hadn't been publicly announced.
Helen Brooks looked furious.
Calloway looked ready to file a complaint.
I kept my attention on the course.
Shaw was assigned to Lane Eleven.
Directly beside me.
Crawford took the microphone.
"Today we welcome a highly experienced marksman whose background includes specialized military service."
He smiled toward Shaw.
"Mr. Victor Shaw."
A handful of spectators applauded.
I stared downrange.
Crawford continued.
"Competition at this level requires discipline, precision, and the ability to perform under pressure."
His eyes moved toward me.
"Not merely one lucky round."
Calloway muttered something unrepeatable.
I almost smiled.
The first targets rose.
The range filled with controlled gunfire.
Shaw fired quickly.
Cleanly.
He was good.
I had forgotten how good.
In Afghanistan, he had rarely carried a rifle during operations.
Communications had been his specialty.
But he had trained with us.
And when the shooting started, he knew what to do.
After five targets, he was tied with me.
After ten, he held a narrow lead.
The crowd became restless.
Crawford smiled.
The scoreboard displayed our names.
SHAW — 100
WELLS — 98
I ignored it.
The competition wasn't finished.
The next target appeared.
I fired.
Hit.
Then another.
Hit.
The wind shifted.
Several shooters missed.
Shaw remained steady.
By the final sequence, we were tied again.
A long steel target moved slowly across the distant berm.
Shaw fired first.
Hit.
I waited.
The target reversed direction.
I fired.
Hit.
The next target appeared farther away.
Shaw fired.
Miss.
A surprised murmur passed through the crowd.
I adjusted.
Fired.
Hit.
The scoreboard changed.
WELLS — 148
SHAW — 145
Crawford leaned toward the scoring official.
His expression hardened.
Then the final target rose.
I could hear Shaw breathing beside me.
Slow.
Controlled.
He fired.
Hit.
I waited for a clear presentation.
Then fired.
Hit.
The whistle sounded.
Round complete.
The crowd erupted.
I lowered my rifle.
Shaw turned his head.
For a moment, the old soldier looked back at me.
Not the traitor.
Not the stranger.
The man who had once shared his last clean canteen of water with a nineteen-year-old specialist.
Then his expression hardened.
He leaned closer.
"You just cost your mother another day."
I stared at him.
"No."
He frowned.
"What?"
I zipped my case.
"You don't get to use her as an excuse for what you've done."
Shaw's jaw tightened.
Then he whispered, "You still don't understand who you're fighting."
I stood.
"Then start explaining."
He glanced toward Crawford.
Then toward the cameras.
And for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes.
Not fear of me.
Fear of somebody watching.
At 10:43 a.m., Michael sent a video.
He had opened the base of the wooden angel.
Inside was a narrow metal compartment.
And inside that compartment lay a folded sheet of paper.
A list.
Names.
Dates.
Contract numbers.
The handwriting was my father's.
I recognized the careful block letters.
At the bottom, beneath a series of technical notations, he had written one sentence.
THE ORIGINALS ARE NOT IN THE ARCHIVE.
Then another.
THE ORIGINALS ARE WITH THE PERSON EVERYONE FORGOT.
I stared at the screen.
A third line had been added in different handwriting.
Older.
More hurried.
ASK ELEANOR WHAT SAMUEL LEFT BEHIND.
Eleanor.
My mother's name.
The person everyone forgot.
The woman who raised us.
Paid the bills.
Cooked the meals.
Remembered birthdays.
Kept old letters.
And spent her entire life being underestimated by men who believed important information belonged only to people wearing uniforms.
I looked at Mercer.
He read the message.
Then his expression changed.
"Your mother knows more than she told us."
I felt my chest tighten.
"Why would she hide it?"
Mercer shook his head.
"Maybe she was protecting you."
I looked back at the video.
The little wooden angel lay open on Michael's workbench.
My childish carving had concealed a secret for more than thirty years.
And somewhere inside my mother's memories was the reason.
Then Michael sent another message.
TARA, CALL ME NOW.
I dialed.
He answered immediately.
"Hey."
"What's wrong?"
His voice trembled.
"I found something else."
"What?"
"There's a photograph inside the tin."
I closed my eyes.
"Of who?"
"Grandpa Sam.
Daddy.
And a third man."
I gripped the phone.
"Who?"
Michael swallowed.
"He looks exactly like Admiral Crawford."
My blood ran cold.
"But there's no way it could be him.
The picture is too old."
I stared at Mercer.
"Michael, send it."
A moment later, the image arrived.
Three men stood beside an industrial communications facility.
My grandfather.
My father.
And a naval officer.
The officer wore a name tag.
I enlarged the photograph.
R. CRAWFORD.
Vice Admiral Robert Crawford.
James Crawford's father.
The man who had supposedly been my grandfather's enemy.
Except in the photograph, he had his arm around Samuel Wells's shoulders.
And all three men were smiling.
On the back, someone had written a date.
JUNE 17, 1984.
Beneath it were four words.
BEFORE WE KNEW BETTER.
I stared at the photograph.
For thirty years, our families had been connected.
Maybe even longer.
May you like
And suddenly, I realized the real question wasn't why Crawford hated me.
It was what his father had done to mine.
